Sequence and Courtesy

He fell onto his iron chair at precisely 11PM. The wind outside the room was howling and swirling and spitting, and the heavens inside the room were gloaming and ominous.

The sound of him hitting the chair awakened his neighbors in the adjacent rooms, and even awakened his mother who was downstairs in the living room watching sports on the television set. His mother was the landlady of the house. When the neighbors heard the noise, they both sat still in their beds and waited in anticipation for further noises. When his mother the landlady heard the noise, she pressed the mute button on the television set from her remote control, hoisted herself from the brown leather sofa, and began walking up the stairs.

She knocked twice, and there was no response. She called out his name – “Rumsfeld. Rumsfeld?” – and there was no answer. She tried the door, and it was unlocked. But even though it was unlocked, something was barring her from entering the room. The door opened only just a smidge, and then it bumped up against something solid. Something like a dresser or a taller nightstand that had been moved across the room to bar entry.

“Rumsfeld?” she called out again. And then muttered to herself, “what have you gotten yourself into this time, my dear boy.”

“Everything alright, Mrs. Sherman?” It was the voice of the tenant on the right hand side. He was sitting up in bed and talking to her through his door because he didn’t feel like getting up to open it.

“Quite alright, Mr. Shepherd. Everything’s fine. I’ve got it handled, thank you.”

“Alright, then.”

The tenant on the left hand side, Mrs. Kilpatrick, seemed to be listening intently in her bed too, for that explanation seemed to be enough for her.

“Rumsfeld,” his mother said in more of a pleading whisper this time. “Would you kindly rise from your chair,, move whatever is in the way there, and open the door? You’re causing a bit of a scene.”

Rumsfeld was starting to wake up from wherever it is he had come from. His vision was becoming clearer and he could detect a lack of moisture in his mouth. His hands were neatly folded in his lap. The heavens were still drifting there around him in the room.

“We….”, he mumbled, feeling the word in his mouth. Trying to get out more. “We wouldn’t want…we wouldn’t want a scene, mother. Give me a moment. I’ll get the door.”

He rose from the iron chair, and with a newfound strength, pushed the halfway full bookcase away from the door and against a wall.

His mother opened the door and rushed into his open arms.

“We can’t let this keep happening, my dear boy,” she said. Fresh tears were in her eyes and she was drying them on his shoulder.

“I know, mother. I know.”

The heavens were still aglow and his mother could see them all around the room, like an unwelcome twilit fog. “What do we do about it?”

“I’m still trying to work that one out.”

“Where did you go to this time, my son? Where did you come from?”

“I’m still trying to work that one out, too.”

“Whatever you do, don’t fall back into that chair.”

“I won’t, mother.”

“Oh, my son,” she said, crying again and huddled up against him. “Why can’t things just be normal for us, for once?”

“I don’t know, mother. I really don’t know.”

Rumsfeld would cry later, most likely, but not now. He felt as if he had to be strong for the both of them. He felt that more and more often, these days. He allowed her to finish her crying and sniffling, pull herself together, and straighten up. He followed her downstairs to the living room, where she unmuted the television set and they watched one of the countless and unremarkable baseball games.

The sports games didn’t really matter that much. They were all reruns, and Rumsfeld and his mother knew all the scores and plays by heart.